


Malachite Heart

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crying Sherlock is heartbreaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutilations, Post Reichenbach, Scars, Slash, Triggers, it is a really angsty fic with a really angsty Sherlock, mentions of torture, post torture, though not graphic, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic just wrote itself.<br/>Sherlock comes back after The Reichenbach Fall. He is anxious, fidgety and obviously hides something. John wants to help. Disaster? No.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malachite Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to my mind today and I couldn't shoo it away. Crying Sherlock and John helping him is something that never fails to warm my heart. 
> 
> I had a rough day and I needed it out of my system, ok? 
> 
> AmE, not betaed. 
> 
> Sex scene at the end, but I'm still rubbish at them. 
> 
> Enjoy nonetheless!

When Sherlock returned John couldn't really believe his own eyes. One day he was still grieving – three years and counting – and the other the mad detective was there, standing at his doorway, at their doorway, because John couldn't bring himself to move from 221B.   
  
When John saw him, Sherlock looked miserable. He was paler than the doctor could remember, skinnier and there was a half manic – half frightened look in his steely eyes. John hugged him then, and everything he had been hiding in his chest spilled over in a rush of words, half whispered into the detective's ear. He may have begged Sherlock not to leave him again, he may have been threatening him, he may have been crying. He didn't care, and neither did the detective, as he clung to John for dear life, promising everything the doctor wished.

They ate a quick dinner that John managed to magic up from the left-overs in the fridge. He didn't really care for nutrition those days and the state of his supplies was rather poor. Sherlock answered all of his questions, he described in details how he managed to fake his death.

And then Sherlock told John why he did it, and John's heart skipped a beat, just to pound presto, prestissimo in his chest a second later.   
  
Sherlock cared for him. About him.   
  
But John was sure their mutual care was not balanced right. Sherlock must have been talking about friendship, and even that was a foreign term for him. John looked as the detective fumbled with words, anxiously describing his feelings, and only one thought was running through the good doctor's mind – he was wildly, hopelessly and fiercely in love with the resurrected genius. He couldn't bring himself to say this out loud, however. The evening had been too adventurous already, he was sure that it would be too much to his already abused heart.

When they made the decision to end the evening, however, John looked at Sherlock and then at his own bedroom. He had had enough nightmares during that three years, and he didn't want any more of them.   
  
Not tonight.   
  
The detective caught what he was thinking instantly and without a word followed John to his room. When they reached it, John quickly changed into his pajama bottoms and – chest naked – climbed on the bed. He lied down and, after a brief glance at the younger man, who was barely able to support himself with his legs from all the tiredness, the doctor moved to the side. He patted the vacated space and Sherlock nodded, huffing a quiet 'thank you', and installed himself to John's left. The doctor left the bedside table lamp on and covered them with the duvet. Sherlock closed his eyes where he was resting on his back and tried not to look too tense.   
  
He was still fully clothed, apart from the socks, and John was briefly wondering how he would manage not to die from overheating. He wished those thoughts away as he felt himself falling asleep. The last thing he remembered was a delicate, cool hand touching his wrist.

When John awoke with a start in the middle of the night, his first reaction was to check the place beside him. He expected to find the place empty and the whole evening just a cruel creation of his hopeful imagination. But there, under the covers by his side, was a warm and seemingly asleep consulting detective. Sherlock was facing away from him and John fought the urge to snuggle to him. It was a noble fight, which he spectacularly lost.

Moving quietly and softly, not to wake him, the doctor installed himself behind Sherlock's back, carefully spooning him. With his left arm placed under his own head and the other resting lightly over the covers on the other man's hip, John started to drift off again. When he was at the edge of consciousness, a quiet sob and a slight shift before him brought him back. The doctor opened his eyes and looked at the mop of dark curls before him.  
  
“Sherlock?” He whispered and the man in question shifted again, his chest heaved but no sound escaped him.  
“Sherlock, what's wrong?” John was more alert now, sleep flowing away. The lamp they left turned on was still bathing the room in a warm glow, but its placement on the doctor's side of bed made it hard to lighten Sherlock's features.   
  
He was still facing away, curled in a fetal position, knees drawn up to his still-clothed chest. John shifted his hand higher, running it lightly over the detective's arm and rubbed the silk-covered limb.  
“Did I do something wrong?” He asked, recalling his change in position and the way he snuggled up on Sherlock. The dark haired man just shook his head 'no'.  
“Sherlock... what's going on?” John tried to shift him, using a gentle grip on his shoulder, but the detective refused, burying his face in the pillow, hiding further from the doctor's view.  
“Sherlock, please... tell me what's wrong” John was getting desperate now.

After a minute of silence, there was a low whisper coming from the detective, and John had to hold his breath to hear it.  
“It's nothing, John...” it was a broken and a miserable sigh and the doctor leaned further to listen to it properly. His left cheek was resting on the top of Sherlock's shoulder and the detective tensed a little.  
“Well, clearly it is something... Sherlock, tell me, please...” he rubbed his hand up and down the taller man's arm again, dipping it under the duvet in process. Sherlock tensed again and swallowed rapidly.  
  
“It's alright, not your fault. It's me...” John frowned at that.  
“What do you mean?” He asked, voice gentle. “Are you sick?” That would explain the detective's state this evening, all tense and fidgety. Sherlock seemed to ponder his answers for a minute, before he finally let out a sigh.  
“My stomach hurts. Nothing to worry about” he said and it was the truth.   
  
Actually his whole belly hurt like hell from the constant stress and muscle tightness. But it was not the only thing that caused his state, no... it was rather the result of three different factors colliding together in his life.   
  
He felt John tugging at his arm again, trying to lie him on his back. He quickly pushed in the opposite direction, determined to stay as he were. The doctor would probably ant to examine his abdomen and he couldn't let him do this... couldn't let him see this... this atrocity. He was a monster now and he should hide forever. Even if it meant that he would die from longing to touch John.   
  
To be with John.  
  
“Sherlock...” the doctor took on a pleading tone and shifted even closer to the detective, one hand sneaking between Sherlock's head and the pillow he was lying on, the other wandering slowly but surely to his belly. Sherlock stiffened and tensed further, eyes opening wide as a loud sob escaped him. He moved his right hand to stop John's wandering palm and grasped it tightly.  
“No, please...” he whispered, feeling how the feeling of ice-cold panic overwhelmed him. “Please, don't...” he heard himself beg, half moaning – half squealing. John was determined, however, and Sherlock felt a set of hot fingers splayed neatly over his stomach, the warmness sipping through the thin shirt and making his body shudder involuntarily.  
  
“Hey...” John breathed into his ear, his mouth shifted dangerously close to the detective.   
  
“Sherlock, what's wrong?” He asked and squeezed a little with his hand, feeling the muscles under the pale skin. They were all drawn tight, tensed and taut. The detective moaned and buried his face in the pillow again. John started to gently move his fingers, only slightly digging them in his flesh, massaging the stressed body.  
“God, you are so tensed that there is no wonder you are aching. It has to be painful...”  
  
John made wider circles with his fingers, only slightly noticing some irregularities in the skin under the silk shirt. He was far too focused on getting to the detective to pay attention to such trivial things. Maybe Sherlock was wearing a cotton sweatshirt underneath?  
  
“John, please” the detective whined and one of his hands grasped John's arm. He turned his head from the pillow to look straight ahead of him, staring into the semi-darkness. The doctor would have none of it and continued the soft movements of his fingers, applying and releasing pressure. It started to work, the detective's muscles started to relax a little. He sighed.  
  
“Sherlock, tell me what is it?”  
“I... I can't...” he breathed and closed his eyes. “You'll leave...” He added after a longer moment of silence, when, as he assumed, John was waiting for some explanation. The ex-army doctor stilled his hand and looked into the darkness over Sherlock's neck.  
“Why would I do such thing?” He asked in a low voice, the thought alone sounded preposterous to him. He loved Sherlock and now that he got him back, he was never letting go.  
“Because you would...” he swallowed hard, his voice cracking a little. “You think highly of me, even if I failed you...”  
“You did it to protect us...” John protested, in spite of himself.   
  
It still hurt, but now that he knew the reasons, he didn't mind that much. He was just glad that the whole story ended as it did.  
  
“...nevertheless, I failed you. And you still think that I'm a hero. But I'm not... I'm a monster John...” his rich baritone, only half-voiced during this confession, trembled at the last words. John winced and buried his face in the nape of the taller man's neck, his warm breath tickling Sherlock.  
“You are not a monster, Sherlock” he stated in a half-voice, the sureness of steel present in each word. He hugged Sherlock with his hand that was still placed at the detective's belly and tucked his knees closer to the pair of long, lean legs. Sherlock heaved a dry sob and after that fell quiet.

“John, please... let me go” he asked, trying to detach himself from the army doctor, but the man in question only tightened his embrace.  
“No... I'm not letting you go.”  
“But... John, please... you don't understand anything...” Sherlock sighed but stopped his attempts on escape.  
  
“Then enlighten me why should I let you go when I don't want to” John shifted a little, readjusting himself at Sherlock's back and tucking his head back into the nape of the detective's neck. “Please, Sherlock... don't go. You told me that I'll leave you if I know... if I know what?”  
“Don't...”  
“Sherlock.”

There was something warning in John's voice that made Sherlock obey.  
“I am a monster, John... one of the henchmen...”  
“...that were hunting us?”  
“Yes... one of them was... sadistic. He caught me and my helper from the homeless network. He... tortured us to get some ridiculous information” the detective felt silent for a moment, before he continued. “He tortured and mutilated Max to death...”

And did the same thing to me, sans death. Scarred, mutilated... forever. Body and soul.

“But you escaped” John offered with a hot breath breezing his ear. Sherlock shivered.  
“I killed him...” he swallowed, John could make out the bobbing of his Adam's apple in the darkness. “I used the same method and tools he used to kill Max and I killed him... Hammer and ax...” Sherlock started to tremble. John fell silent against him, and the great detective could feel a pure, wild panic clawing at his guts.

That's it. Now John will hate you and throw you out of his mind, his heart and his life.

“John, please... say something” he whispered, closing his eyes.   
  
Sherlock felt a slight movement behind him and soon the hand on his abdomen started to move again, light, soothing circles.  
“Sorry...” came a heavy and teary whisper. “It's okay, Sherlock. I... I think... I should told you this a long time ago. Maybe even back then, when we were solving crimes before all this Reichenbach madness...” he wanted to continue, but the detective interrupted him in a miserable tone.  
“It's okay, John... I know, I'm a freak and a monster... I don't blame you... nobody has ever liked me, apart from Molly's strange and seemingly mental fascination. Why would you like me?” He sniffed, his nose filled and heavy, eyes teary. He felt John's arms squeezing him even tighter while he spoke.  
  
“You're right, Sherlock...” John shifted so he was talking directly to the detective's ear. “I don't like you... I love you” he said and waited a bit for the information to sink in. Sherlock tensed again, eyes opening wide in the dark.

“I love you, you mad idiot. I think I have loved you from the first time I set my eyes on you and there is no chance in hell that I could leave you on my own free will” he finished, kissing Sherlock's neck. He looked at the detective, a slightly different angle provided him with a limited, but significant view on the right half of Sherlock's face.   
  
The detective was crying quietly, trembling just slightly and desperately trying to contain every noise that wanted to escape his lips. John nuzzled his neck again and ran his hand higher, over the detective's ribcage and to his chest. He was stopped by Sherlock's hand, closed so tightly over his wrist that it actually sent a spike of pain through his bones.  
  
“Please don't” Sherlock whispered, voice rough from concealing his emotions.  
“Why?” John asked softly, but stopped his hand. “Talk to me, Sherlock. I love you, I'm not going anywhere without you... I won't leave you, I won't judge you... Talk to me, please” he kissed his neck again, softly, gently, brushing it with his tongue and attaching his lips to the spot.  
“I'm not how you remembered me, John” he said slowly, measuring every word.   
  
John frowned.  
  
“I don't care. You could have tentacles or a second head, and I would still love you. Do you hear me? I don't care.”

This time, when John moved his hand, Sherlock let him do so. He shifted his left one and interlaced his fingers with John's left palm that was still trapped between him and the pillow. His right came to John's arm, but he only kept it there, a grounding touch, a proof that John was still there. The doctor shifted his right hand and found buttons of the detective's shirt. He started to open them, one by one, until all of them were undone and he could touch his friend... no, his lover, without any obstacles.

The first touch of John's warm fingers to Sherlock's cool and trembling flesh was like a spark of electricity that made its way through his whole body. He held his breath waiting for an inevitable.

He was a killer.   
  
He killed in revenge.   
  
He would do this again.  
  
He was scarred. Mutilated. Deformed skin.   
  
Wounded.   
  
Repulsive.   
  
Disgusting.

  
A monster.

John ran his fingers over his skin. He gasped and paused, feeling the deformations and scars. Raised flesh, barely healed gushes... He felt with his fingertips, Sherlock's muscles convulsed and he fought with all his strength to run and hide somewhere. John was so still behind him.. his hand brought to a halt, his breathing stopped.  
“John?” He couldn't take the deafening silence any more. He tried to twist his way out of John's hands, run and run fast. But the doctor didn't let him go.

A chocked sob came from behind the detective, and then another. Sherlock felt wetness on his neck and frowned...   
  
What the...?   
  
And then John sobbed again and it all became clear to him. John was crying, his body trembling and chest heaving.  
“John...” now he tried to turn around, to see John, to assess the situation. Why was he crying? John shouldn't be crying, should he? The detective managed to turn around using all the strength that was left in his exhausted body. His doctor's hands hadn't left him for a second and were resting on the back of his head and on his side, tracing slow, gentle patterns.

“He burned you...” John choke out, looking at the poorly illuminated scars. The wounds must have been awfully painful and John's heart clenched. He raised his sight to the detective's face and was rewarded with the greatest look of relief that he had ever seen on Sherlock's face. He couldn't stand it any longer and launching forward with a huff of 'I love you', captured the taller man's lips and kissed him deeply.

Sherlock was at first too surprised to reciprocate, but soon followed, returning the kiss and bringing his body close to his friend. John hummed his approval when he felt the warm weight moving against his own skin and sucked Sherlock's lip between his. That seemed to encourage the detective, who wrapped his arms around the smaller man's body and ran them all over his back, leaving a gooseflesh behind. John moaned, breaking the kiss in the need of air and let his hand wander from Sherlock's side to his front, touching the previously burned skin with the greatest care. The younger man closed his eyes and moaned low in his throat at the gesture, his hips bucking forward on their own accord. He opened his mouth to apologize, but John quickly pushed his tongue between his lips, effectively silencing him.

When Sherlock felt John's palm pressing up gently to his now hard member, he could only produce a breathy moan and fumble with the drawstring of his doctor's pajama bottoms. John smiled, quickly opening the detective's zipper and plunged his hand inside.

“John...” Sherlock groaned, feeling John's steady hand encircling him and squeezing lightly. He soon settled on a quick pace, relishing in the soft moans and quiet whines his lover was producing.   
  
Sherlock was so far gone that reciprocating was beyond his comprehension, so he just mindlessly dragged his hand over John's still-clothed manhood. Not that the doctor minded – quite the contrary, it gave him the chance to admire his own handiwork. Sherlock, looking absolutely debauched, was groaning and cursing, his hips canting into John's hand and his hands clawing at whatever he could reach.  
  
“God, you are so beautiful Sherlock, you have no idea...”  
“John...” he whined and bit his lip. He gasped as John ran his thumb over the sensitive slit and his body jolted when the top of the same thumb dipped slightly into it.  
“John, please...”  
  
“Shh... I've got you...” John soothed, fisting his other hand in Sherlock's unruly curls and angling his head back to kiss and lick his swan-like neck.  
“Hnnnngggg... John! I can't... I...” he started to trash on the bed and John sped up a little, sucking on his neck.  
“Come on, Sherlock.”  
“John...” Sherlock's hands wandered to his back and he dug his nails into John's skin. The doctor moaned, arching his spine slightly and added a twist on every stroke. The detective's back arched, too, and John licked his lips at the sight laid before him. Sherlock was flushed, his eyes closed and face contorted in overwhelming pleasure. He was keening a high-pitched sound and John buried his face in his neck.  
  
“Shh... I'm here... come for me, Sherlock” the detective tensed, hearing the request whispered directly to his ear undid him.  
“John!” He shouted and came, trembling violently, holding on to John for dear life, whispering a long litany of 'Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn.....'.

The sight before him, the breathy moans and the litany of his own name, moaned like a mantra by Sherlock, was John's undoing. He rubbed his cock only once, before he was coming, the force of his orgasm taking him entirely by surprise. He held on to the detective, whispering into his ear, how much he loved him, how much he needed him, and how he couldn't live without him.

When they finally got their breaths back, they were too tired to properly clean up. John took off his ruined bottoms and ran them over as much mess as he could get, before he did the same to Sherlock. Then he stripped the detective from all his clothes, despite Sherlock's weak protests to leave the shirt on. He tossed everything on the floor and draped himself over Sherlock, hugging him tightly.  
  
“I love you” he whispered to one pale collarbone and before he drifted off, John was rewarded with a quiet 'I love you, too, John'.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are gold :) 
> 
> Love ya all! <3


End file.
